


teenage dream, follow my future

by youtiao



Category: Holland (Musician)
Genre: Breakup, Character Study, M/M, and added some stuff, based off of neverland, like i literally stole the plot of the mv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-19 16:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youtiao/pseuds/youtiao
Summary: he is young.





	teenage dream, follow my future

he is young.

click. the camera in his hand hums before spitting out a photo. (it’s grainy. all of them are grainy, shades of gritty washed-out glaucous blue, white painted lines stretching on for miles and miles and miles. his hands had been shaking. everything is greyed, streaked across the photograph.) he does not look back, but he knows little rectangles of grey-blue litter the road behind— the photo flutters from his fingertips. _whrr_ , _whrr_ , kick. the concrete grinds against the sole of his brand-new converse, against the cloudy, lemon-yellow wheels. _whrrrr_ —

the wind drags its hands through his hair, pulling gently at the sleeves of his red jacket. his cheeks are flushed red with cold. whrr, whrr. it’s like a lover’s caress, against his skin, through his hair, blowing against his lips. numb, tingling. click, click, click. the cliffs are staggering blocks of yale blue, sharp dips and deep crevices softened by the tremble in his hands. greenery crowd together in the ditches by the road— wide fans of hooker’s green, slumping into the concrete. _click_.

the focus is strange in this one. one, two, three— he can count each thin, ovular leaf in one frond, molded against the ground as if it’d been stepped on, rolled over. long stripes of—blue, green, grey—it’s like an artist’s palette. oil slips gently between the smears of colour. a brush. blotting at the swatches, swirling it— like a hurricane, a tornado of colour. blue, green. grey, blue. green, grey.

blue.

 

he is young.

red, yellow, green, blue. crumbling into powder in his fists, grinding. (it’s so quiet.) it crumbles through the spaces between his fingers— fluttering like coloured snowflakes (to rest on, around, beside the unbroken pieces littered all over the table). little swim rings of red, yellow, green, blue, all over the table, swirling in his bowl, dissolving into cloying sweet on his tongue— _clink_ , _clink_ , the spoon scratching against the sides. around and around and around— the milk laps at the sides, clinging to the faded pieces of cereal, sloshing sloshing sloshing.

the colour— it dwindles, fading, from red to rose, yellow to cream, green to lime— blue to the worn morning sky. his spoon scrapes at the bottom of the bowl. it’s the loudest thing in the house, echoing in his ears (it is the loudest sound in the house and he can’t bear it it’s so loud)— clink, clink. around and around, a whirlpool of faded colour and white— so much white, white everywhere (milk in a brightly patterned dollar store bowl, cereal crumbs covering the table, snow falling slowly outside the tightly shut curtains). rings of artificial colour (it’s so bright yet so faded at the same time, artificial) swirling and swirling and swirling— and it loses colour, slowly, like artificial things (artificial things like—) losing colour as he swirls it around the bowl and thinks, _that’s kind of like love, isn’t it?_ (artificial things like love. artificial; fake.)

it’s so very quiet. the spoon floats on top of the lapping waves— then begins to sink, as he stares it begins to sink and slowly it’s swallowed up completely by the milk (and _that’s kind of like love too, right?_ ) and (he isn’t shaking) when he pulls it out (not anymore) it’s dripping drip drip drip white, a leopard’s pelt of white spots across the table. a pearl of milk— it settles, quivers. _tok_ — he knocks his fist against the table and (the sound echoes echoes and echoes) it jumps, as if afraid, slipping between the cracks of the old, bruised wood. slipping away.

clink, clink. the table’s a mess. he puts his chin on his arms— the wood is wobbling, everything is wobbling, blurring. ( _i can’t do this._ ) deep breath in and he counts the little cracks spreading from the dark knot. one, two, three, four, five. it is white, and red and yellow and green and blue— the tan expanse of wood, red and yellow and green and blue scattered across the table. red, yellow, green, blue. (rose, cream, lime and baby blue—)

clink.

the spoon settles at the bottom of the bowl.

 

he is young.

soft cotton and pillows and skin, warm skin pressed against his own. there’s something so beautiful, so thrilling about skin, hands smoothing over bare skin, palms splayed over bare skin, _bare skin_. he loves touching holding _feeling_ , his own tanned fingers slipping between paler, thinner ones. wrapping his hands around bony shoulders, feeling feeling _feeling_ through the material— _hey, i’m not gonna run away you don’t have to hold me so tight you know?_

a laugh. it resonates in his chest, bouncing bouncing bouncing all over the place, and he smiles back. there’s something so beautiful about smiles too— eyes crinkled into moon-shapes, cheeks puffing up, and it’s, it’s like the sun slipped its rays into his face because whenever he smiles the room gets brighter. and his laugh— _god_ , his laugh, it’s like. it’s like the wind. (he tries not to stare.)

his laugh is like the wind and the shutters spin open when he taps on the window, smiling his sunshine-smile. his laugh— it’s like the spring wind, promising warmth and bringing flowers, brushing velvet against taeseob’s cheeks, bringing hope and sunshine and splashing water in puddles. it’s like periodic a summer breeze, smelling of the sea and lawn clippings and sucking the stifling hot out of his ears. it is like autumn wind, an army of invisible horses to a firestorm of leaves, galloping down to settle on muddy riverbanks.

and his laugh is like winter wind— biting at skin, whipping snowflakes into taeseob’s eyes and he can’t see anything but a silhouette of a back turned on him (he can’t see and he struggles to keep up) as snow piles around his legs, ice seeping into his veins through the tops of his boots, he can’t see anymore (not the real him) as _he_ yells and yells and his smile is gone but he laughs when taeseob begin to cry, he laughs and it is bitter like a snowball to the mouth (a fist to the mouth).

he laughs like the winter wind, curling it’s claws into his shoulders and cackl—

 

he is young.

the sand is like silk ribbon between his toes, shifting and sifting between tanned skin. hot enough to tingle along the lines of the soles of his feet, but not so it burns. paler lines on the lightly toasted coconut colour of his feet are in the pattern of his sandals, black strappy flats that wind up his ankles. the sand almost looks like coffee cream, smooth, light glittering off shiny bits uncovered by their steps. their footprints are sucked into the ground, slight indentations just another four among the rolls of the sand. a gust of wind winds around their legs, stirring up sand.

their fingers slip together seamlessly, it’s— step, step, step. right foot, left foot. his strides are longer (than _his_ ), so he shortens them. the trees tower over the border between hot sand and dry dirt, waving at the horizon with their split leaves— the shade seems to dance across the ground. greyed colours swaying over miniature mountains.

 _hshhh_... shh, the waves seem to say, arching as they speed forward, melting into the darkened sand with a flash of white. lapping at the hems of their jeans like excited puppies. ‘ _do you wanna get a dog together?_ ’ he crouches. _shh_ — (calm down, you’re safe). he cups his hands. the water is cool, clear, draining out from between his fingers, foam bubbling. (slipping between like sand.)

the clouds—they had been nothing but small wisps in the expanse of sky—they begin to fill in, ghosts hovering like a halo around the sun, like moths around a candle. froth continues to grip at his toes as the wave recedes. (the sun seems the pulse in the sky with every breath, every swelling wave.) the wind whips, harsher, kicking up sand. loose fabrics billow but cling to the backs of their necks with sweat, a cloud of white and one of striped blue. deep blonde hair, rich black— mussed, crisp with salt, forming peaks like icing on a cake. blonde, white, black, blue.

‘ _are you asking me to move in with you, taeseob?_ ’ hands clutched tight, spinning around— he’s laughing they’re both laughing and the ring slips under and over the crash of the waves (shh, shh) and shifting of the sand and the chirp of the crickets hiding in the tall grasses. (a melody to their dance, moving to an imaginary routine.) sand dashes around their bare feet like the sparkles that jump from the heels of a cartoon couple, waltzing.

(he’d always wanted a romance like the ones he’d see in the movies.)

the beach is empty. orange, pink, streaks of warm dyeing the clouds and striping across the sky. the confident strokes of a painter. their feet are still bare, scraping against pavement with the bounce of the cooler behind them. (clink, clink, they can hear the bottles inside moving.) dry grass crumbles, and the loose dust breezes from their heels, leaves faint footprint-shaped indentations. weeds clutch at the legs of the rickety bench in the lot— it’s brushed with sand and wobbles when they move, but it’s fine, perfect even.

the sun is rimmed red, glinting off the necks of their glass bottles. the beer’s warm from sitting inside the trunk all day, despite the bags of ice inside the cooler, and the evening is hot still (though not as) and condensation wets their fingers and the knees of their jeans. the water burns a fiery red as the sun slides down below the crashing waves, as if glowing from below. it’s quiet, save for the rhythmic clap of the waves, save for the hum of the crickets and the chirp of a lone gull as it circles around the reflection of the sun.

he tilts his head back (beer spills from the corners of his lips, down his chin his neck and it’s cool, refreshing, nipping at sun-kissed skin). amber blooms across white fabric like a shot of espresso in a mug of hot milk. (he kicks his leg forward and) _he_ turns, smile already curving the corners of his soft pink mouth and taeseob swallows before bending down the peck his lips gently. ‘ _you know i love you, right?_ ’

(it’s not until now that he realizes he has something far, _far_ better.)

 

he is young.

it’s one in the afternoon when he opens his eyes— and the sun has already climbed high, high, hanging to the west. rays peer in through the slatted windows of the trailer, striping the wood panels. dust spins lazily through the room, stirred by the ceiling fan, spinning gently in the sunlight. lavender, chamomile, bundles of pale purple and light yellow dangle from plastic hooks pasted to the ceiling, petals sleeping undisturbed in clay jars and bowls around the room. steam spills from the curved mouth of a humidifier, rising up (up up up), before dispersing into nothingness (hitting the blades of the fan).

brightly coloured carpets are spread around the room, around the trailer, from simple block patterns to sprawling beaches and intricately stitched palms. (they’re all soft beneath the soles of his feet, rough from a summer of walking across sand and dirt and concrete.) there is not a spot on the grey metal walls where there isn’t a painting, or a shelf, or a window— he twists the chain of dangling metal nubs, and the slats turn, flipping flipping flipping (the lines on the ground contract, fading and widening, fading and widening).

and he cranks the window open a little bit because it’s a nice day— summer’s bright sun but not it’s heavy humidity, autumn’s leaves blushed red but not matting the ground, and the wind with the touch of both (walks down the beach from the summer just barely past and memories of hay bales and apple pies from the season they’re farthest yet closest to).

the south wall of the trailer opens up to a deck, spanning down the whole length and width as wide as the trailer itself. glass doors swing out and (it is a nice day so) he sticks his thermos beneath the coffee machine and stares out the wide-open window as the dark liquid spills, twisting and curling.

a hand cradling the hot thermos, other gripped tight around slippery ladder rungs— he climbs up onto the slanted roof of the trailer. digs his heels into the arched rainpipes. the chimney sways, clanging gently. steam rising thick and white from the lip of his mug.

he stretches out on sun-warmed planks, eyes closed toward the sun. thmp, thmp, the leather smack of a basketball against plank. he lifts the raincover protecting all his old stuff and dust flies, grey against the white sunlight. an old skateboard, stickers plastered across the varnished surface. fingers toy with the rusted nails of the deck; wooden boards warming the backs of his thighs.

 _whrr_ , _whrr_ , it rolls, a blur of linkin park and fall out boy, bubble letters and graffiti fonts, bright blue and ink black and faded red and neon green. he kicks it and it rolls (whrr, whrr), skipping over copper bolts. palm flat on the deck and (the heat of summer still lingers, golden in the lines of the grain) spread, nails shiny with clear polish and white trimmed down. it’s smooth but worn down by weather, and the edges of deep cracks and crevices in the wood are level, perfect curves.

(he runs his hands down the planks, fingers tucking into the fissures, nails chafing along the edges. hot, shaped by the hands of rain and wind. it’s a familiar feeling, a familiar memory.) and _tchh_ , _tchh_ , the soles of his beat-up high tops scraping against the deck, flipping the skateboard (with a _bang!_ ) and catching it. a familiar feeling, a familiar memory. the varnish is cold against the back of his neck, slickened from the sweat.

and he lifts a pile of handmade coasters and ( _aha, there it is_ ) there’s a small polaroid camera, original black faded to a dark grey, dusty and fragile in his hands (something rattles when he shakes it). the clasp sticks and he has to dig his nail in to switch out the cartridge (which falls out, dust still clinging).

(but it still works) the light flashing weakly when he clicks the button, twisting the too-long lanyard around his wrist (once, twice). the lenses are thick with grime (and the picture comes out blurry, spots of white light amidst hazy grey-brown) so he passes a soft cloth (it’s a little stiff from sitting on the shelf for so long, but) over the glass (once, twice), toe on the end of the skateboard (seesawing up and down, up and down, up and down, wheels rasping).

he looks up.

 _click_.

 

he is young.

fingers scrabbling at the irregular angles of the rock (trying to climb), toes sinking into the soft sands at the base of the rock. scratching raw the lines of his hands, red prickling at the pale skin, white marks scuffing his nails. (in the soft light of the afternoon) it looks almost pink, rose speckled brown and teal, dusted with sand. he tucks his heels into a ledge in the rock. (the sand seems to spin slowly, whirling around and around and around.)

the camera is in his lap. still dusty, still old, but it sighs (just like it did before) when he holds it to his eye (he has to blink, several times, dust flying into his eyes). click. (his hands still shake, but less) as he thinks about it the camera shakes more rattling rattling (something is) rattling inside and (even when) he clutches his wrists to his chest (they won’t stop shaking), and (even when) he digs his heels into the overhang (so much that it hurts, pricking and bleeding)...

‘ _why not?_ ’ he’d asked, sliding his hands into the dark sand, carving swirling valleys along the shore. (he is met with silence, silence but the waves still sing and the birds still cry and the wind still whispers, the sand shuffling around his fingers. everyone speaks, everyone but the one he longs a word (just one, please) from—)

he had licked his lips, eyes staring out at the open sea— _just say something, please, i beg you_ —

the surface of the fence is well-worn, sticks of log tied together with salt-stiff twine crosses, roots of hardy beach weeds clinging to the bases (twining up, clinging clinging clinging clin _gy_ (just like him) winding up to sprout ugly flowers (half a dozen) at each post). click, click. the thin branches of the tree cuts the sky into millions of broken blue pieces, framed by yellowed green, faded brown. (the beach is empty again.)

‘ _i don’t know, tae... give me more time, please._ ’

the fence creaks when he perches on it, swinging his legs— the beach is a hundred feet away, sloping down on ground that is half dirt half grass (all dry and all crackly). it creaks; he leans, he sits, he drapes himself over the round post, digging painfully into his stomach. click, click, click. (his hands shake, fingernails clacking against the old surface of the camera, and it slips from his hand (dropping in slow motion before bouncing— the lanyard is still wrapped around his wrist).)

‘ _you’re being unreasonable!_ ’

‘ _me? **me**? **i’m** being unreasonable?_ ’

red hot anger had sprouted in his stomach at the time (exactly three hundred sixty five days ago, no), and his toes had curled in frustration at the time (exactly at this time— the sun had been setting, pinks and oranges and reds soaring through the clouds), and he had shouted (at the time)— once, the one time he raised his voice (he didn’t like to raise his voice, loud words scratched at his throat like claws) and it was out of anger and he— he just...

click.

(his head is spinning.) whirr, whirr, autofocus has his head spinning (everything is slow and it seems to spin so so fast) both hands wrapped tightly around the plastic camera (there is a crack in the side and the edges skid, his hands tightening) and even though it is summertime (still) there is suddenly ice crawling down his back, ice closing sharp claws around his shoulders, ice whispering (howling howling howling) into his ears—

‘ _why? why!? why do you have to **be** like this tae!?_ ’ (he lowers the camera.) the wind is warm, spinning up pearly sand and gritty dust around his bare feet, (with the crash of the waves and the buttery wind and the brushstrokes of a deity stretching across the sky) he feel calm, tiptoed with the camera dangling from his wrist... it’s like a dream (oh god) honey warmth muddling with the front of his head.

the ice claws are digging into his shoulders. ‘ _please, i’m sorry, i’m **so** sorry tae,_ ’ (he is apologizing, his lips are making the words the letters each syllable one-by-one and he can _see_ it but he can’t _hear_ it) he can see himself through the lens of a camera, the sun is setting deep and red sinking into the equally red water (it’s bright, like fresh blood) there are ice-cold claws digging into his shoulders, his forearms, his elbows; piercing cold, needles (no, _daggers_ ) of cold (cold cold cold cold cold) seeping into the very marrow of his bones.

‘ _i didn’t mean it tae, goddamit you **know** i didn’t mean it!_ ’ he is crying, he is watching himself cry through the lenses of a camera and the wind kicks up sand (he kicks up sand; the wind kicks up sand). he watches as tears flow haltingly down his cheeks (tears are flowing down his cheeks, having built up in his eyes and broken like a dam crushed).

a hand grips his shoulder.

“tae.”

it is cold.

 

he is young.

there are lips pressing insistently to his, soft and warm and just slick enough for the kiss to be comfortable, hands gripping at his bedclothes, skidding up his back down his sides cradling his face thumbs rubbing over his cheekbones; lips that taste of coffee and mornings (what does a morning taste like, even? he wonders. (coffee, toothpaste, smooth cream cheese and chewy raisin bagel, dewdrops caught on the leaves outside, cold and fresh) he thinks).

he open his eyes— tries to, the sun hasn’t fully risen but it shines searingly bright through the floaty curtains and he can’t see. he squints. his hands carding into thick black hair (still soft, a little damp from the shower) and (mint, coffee, cream cheese bagels and dove shampoo) a tongue taps at his mouth.

he parts his lips—

(nothing but the memory of smooth black hair woven around his fingers...

...and a pair of eyes, darker than his loneliest night.)

  
he blinks.

(he is still young.)

the curtains are swaying gently against the glass. (the window is not open, but the vents blow cold air up and the filmy teal ripples like a little pond.) a portable fan whirs quietly in the corner. (he’d always loved the sound, the sound of something whirring, something working, turning and turning and spinning. skateboard wheels, fans, pinwheels, camera lenses.

there is someone singing. there is someone perched on the wide sill of the window, sitting on the vents, teal curtains swaying and curling like smoke around him. (there is someone singing, his black hair lifting gently with the ac, one leg tucked against his chest and other swinging (back and forth, back and forth); there is someone singing as he stares out the window (at the rain) singing along to the tap tap tap taptap of the rain knocking against the window.)

 

he is young.

(he sings.)

 

teen

age

dream

follow my future

 

(again.) 

**Author's Note:**

> 02/22/2019: fic moved to new account 
> 
> title from [neverland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVzGsh0zRec) by holland
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kingzhys)


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